


Quisos 9

by Hardwood_Studios



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Male Slash, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:24:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hardwood_Studios/pseuds/Hardwood_Studios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack unwittingly ingests a libido enhancing drug whilst visiting Quisos 9, a faraway planet. The Doctor is too good to let him suffer alone. [Jack/Ten]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quisos 9

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: I know I should be writing other things. Updating a few, particular chapter stories. But this needs to be done, goddamnit. I regret nothing. As I’ve recently joined the Doctor Who fandom, naturally, I’ve been looking through the fanfiction available. And I am disappointed, people! Offended, even! I’m sure [or at least I -hope-] there is some good stuff out there, but I sure as hell haven’t found it! It is my civic duty to contribute some decent smut to this fandom! I know there’s a lot of potential pairings out there, but I have an affinity for Jack/Ten. I mean, come on. Come on, people. David Tennant? John Barrowman? Yes on every level.
> 
> Warnings: Smut. You’re welcome.
> 
> Song of Choice: Do I Wanna Know by Arctic Monkeys. It plays on the radio sometimes, I don’t know if you’ve heard it, but I really dig it. Very heavy, solid cords...and...-insert technical music jargon here- It’s just a hot song, okay? Good for sex.

Quisos 9 is as ordinary as an extraordinary planet can be. True to its name, it’s the ninth planet from a tripodal set of tired suns [not but 2,085,000 kilometers off] in the Filibus galaxy. Home to scattered, cherry seas and mineral cliffs tasting both sweet and salty, as well as the indigenous Flak. The Flak, fascinatingly enough, are a widespread race of asexual humanoids. They’re too empathic to properly describe, and too timeless to properly remember. They inhale and exhale together, three billion something lungs expanding and contracting simultaneously. 

Their naked heads are reminiscent of old timey pepper shakers, as flat and smooth and grey as they are. A thin, fleshy feeler extends from the crest of their foreheads, and a slippery looking orb bobs at the end. When a single Flak, or even the whole of them, feels strongly enough, that slippery looking orb [appropriately named "the egg"] glows mightily. It glows a sharp, unmistakable pink. And in the presence of their mate, that glow is enough to light a modest hovel. Mental compatibility is everything, and it’s all two Flak mates need to sustain lifelong contentment and synergism. 

Naturally, being an asexual culture has benefits to speak of, though benefits are never without their disadvantages. The Flak live long, but are by no means immortal. Like most other species, procreation is a necessary part of continued existence. It’s easiest to think of them as dry, automobile engines. They have every bolt and wire, but no juice or spark. In light of this biological crisis, a kind of drug was made to induce artificial feelings of arousal. It took them countless cycles to get right. They had to temporarily alter their physiology and fill their bodies with previously absent hormones. They would do so carefully, or not at all. 

Time was on their side, and they eventually nailed it. Safe, natural, and easy to manufacture. Every ten cycles, a day is set aside for the Flak to breed. Designated portions of the population are chosen to participate. Some volunteer, but most are selected at random. Great banquets are held in every major pantheon, and the chosen Flak gather. They eat, meditate, and generally bask in the excited glow of the life movement [as they like to call it]. When their moon peaks, they drink. A thick, pink drink similar to terran milk [the aforementioned “drug”]. And when every drop is drained, the Flak retire to their respective homes. They keep shut away for the following three sunsets, give or take. 

The Doctor knew all this from the moment he stepped off the TARDIS and spied three suns roasting at their apexes. He smelled the distant mineral cliffs on a particularly sweet breeze, and heard the tall grasses crunching under his trainers. He laughed, threw his arms wide, and did a little spin. The Doctor really loved this planet, he very much did. “Oh, brilliant! This is just...”

“Brilliant?” Jack snarked good naturedly. 

The Doctor huffed a small laugh. “Yes. Yes, that’s the word.” 

Jack looked about himself with creeping brows, absently thumbing his striped suspenders. He whistled. It was a solid, appreciative sound. “Where are we, Doctor? I’ve never seen any place quite like this.” 

“I imagine not! Quisos is completely out of the way, on the proverbial edge of the Universe, practically falling into the next. Or not, that might be an exaggeration, one cannot simply fall into another Universe. Exaggeration, total lie, hardly matters, tourists are all but nonexistent. We’re pioneers, Captain!” 

Jack blinked, incredulous. “You mean we’re the first outworlders to visit this planet?” 

“Yes! Well. Sort of. We-ell. I mean, you’re the first human. Which is very thrilling, isn’t it?” He flailed and gestured in his usual manner. Jack still found it horribly endearing. He cut the Doctor a dry look, waiting for any sort of elaboration. Never one to disappoint, the Doctor went on. “I vacation here! Frequently! No major crises ever find me on this planet. In fact, I have my own reading nook in the library. The big, cryometal library with all the...” He rolled his hand through the air, looking for words. “Stuff. I love that library. No one else is allowed to read in my nook, just me.” 

At Jack’s derisive look, the Doctor puffed up. “Even the Doctor needs a sick day or two.” He defended. 

Jack laughed. On that cheery note, they made off through high grasses and sweet breezes. They carefully stuttered down a clumping of small hills, grabbing at each other when the ground loosened beneath their feet. Twice, the Doctor fell. He bemoaned the dark smears staining the seat of his trousers, and Jack laughed hard enough to break something internally. 

In no time at all, they came across a city. It was fantastically enormous, roughly the size of an average, terran country [think Turkey, maybe Norway]. Unlike what most expect of a future city on a faraway planet, it was not made entirely of metal, but a whole plethora of mediums. Lemon wood, black marble, copper, spectrum glass, foreign things and incomprehensible things. The Flak were big promoters of practicality and beauty. True to their canny nature, it was a city both practical and beautiful. The Doctor recognized it as the Capital. The place, more so than all other places, where important decisions are hashed out and geniuses are bred and works of art are crafted daily. The warm, gooey center of Quisos 9. It had a long, complicated, alien sort of name. 

The Doctor just called it, “Fantasia!” 

Jack took in the sights, openly curious. They were on a quaint, narrow street. Spectrum glass [more commonly known as “rainbow” glass, dispersing light like a paradoxical prism into the colors of the optical spectrum] shimmered underfoot. Like stepping in a puddle, but color ripples out instead of water. Little shops and stalls lined the street, selling their curious, otherworldly products. It was both reminiscent of a tourist town you’d find on Earth, tucked away between conquered mountains, and distinctly alien. No two hovels were the same, they had unique personality in their fixtures and coloring, though it felt as if the same architect was responsible. Overhead, a complex [and oddly quiet] series of expressways for those preferring hover travel. And far off, providing grand backdrops, were steel marvels and vaguely lavender mountains. 

“Fantasia? That’s kind of...human.” Jack pointed out. The Doctor made a face. “I renamed it. If this city were a woman, her name would be Fantasia.”

“Why Fantasia?” 

“Why not Fantasia?” 

Jack smiled. Typical. 

The natives were coming and going, abuzz and seemingly enthused. Jack realized he and the Doctor stuck out like pink, naked apes. There was no diversity of species, just the very similar looking Flak and the two humans. Big eyes stuck to them like darts or leeches, uncomfortable in a prickly way. The Doctor shrugged it off easily enough. Jack could too. 

A short moment later, in the distant distance, drums started up. It was a steady, rhythmic beat that tickled the bottoms of feet. It went thump, thump thump, thump, thump thump, never slowing or softening. The natives froze stiff, their warbly voices dying out. The hover traffic slowed, eventually stopping completely. Jack frowned. The surrounding Flak turned [in perfect, unsettling unison] to the West. Their eggs burst a million kinds of fluorescent pink. It was totally quiet, disrupted only by the distant drums. “Should I be concerned?” Jack whispered awkwardly, trying not to move his mouth. The Doctor grinned, and Jack knew to be properly terrified. “You should always be concerned, Jack.”

The drumming went on for several minutes [five minutes, Jack estimated] without pause. The Doctor looked as if he were barely restraining himself from laughing or frantically whispering. The drums faded with a final thump, thump thump, thump. As if nothing had happened, the Flak carried on with their shopping and chatter. They seemed more lively, faint traces of pink bleeding from their eggs like wet paint. The Doctor suddenly called, “Oi! You! No, not you! You! Yes, you!”

He felt insensitive for thinking so, but Jack couldn’t tell one from the other. They looked nearly identical, though most alien races say the same of humans. He assumed the subtle differences between them were only subtle to him, and all but monumental in the eyes of a native Flak. The Doctor was quick to accost the nearest passerbyer, pushing into their space with infectious enthusiasm and jazz hands. Jack found the Doctor to be [endearingly] enthusiastic in everything he did. 

“Say, what were those drums a moment ago?” He asked. 

Jack had a feeling he already knew, and was only asking for the sake of the question. The queer, ash colored humanoid replied in thick warbles. His voice sounded like a collection of voices, a strange harmony of high and low pitches. “You are not of this planet.” He shot the Doctor mistrustful looks. 

“No! I’m not! Good of you to notice, friend. I’m perfectly kind, I promise. Jack will vouch for my kindliness, won’t you, Jack?” He elbowed Jack in the ribs. 

Jack sighed. “He’s perfectly kind.”

The Flak glanced between them, rapid flickers. He took a tentative step forward. “May I...?” He reached out, and Jack noticed the awkward lengthiness of his fingers. They were much longer than his own, human digits. The Doctor hummed his understanding. He nodded [cheery as ever], and stuffed his hands in his pant pockets. “Of course, of course!” He leaned close, pressing his forehead to those gorged fingertips. Unbeknown to Jack, the Flak was feeling out their intentions. The Doctor pushed forward his feelings of sincerity and innocent interest, opening himself up for mental inspection. He shared the warmth behind his previous memories of Quisos. The Flak was quickly satisfied. 

He smiled grandly at the Doctor. “Thank you, friend.”

Jack was lost, and it showed in his slack expression. 

The Doctor offered a friendly, informal salute. “So. About them drums.”

“Today is special. The life movement has begun, and soon, we will be many more. The drumming means the start of the feast. It will continue well in the night.” The more he said, the more his egg [bouncing at the end of his bony feeler] caught ablaze. It cast airy, bubblegum pink coronas of light on their faces. A happy color that matched his happy tones. The Doctor clapped loudly. He turned to Jack with the biggest, scariest smile. Jack swallowed. “It seems we’re just in time!” 

“In time, Doctor? Dare I ask?” 

“If you don’t ask, well, that’s not fun a’tall. I’d tell you anyway.” 

The Flak considered them [like he knew a secret], before continuing on without so much as a parting word. The Doctor waved him off with grand, sweeping flaps. “Have a good day!” He called through cupped hands. Then they were walking [like they had somewhere to be], and the Doctor was talking too quick to breath. Breathing apparently came second in the face of long winded explanations. “The life movement, he said! You heard him. I know you’re terribly curious, Jack. You don’t need to stifle your enthusiasm, not for my sake.” 

“Please. Enlighten me.” 

“Ah, well I can’t deny a mind hungry for knowledge! The life movement is this magical thing, it happens every ten cycles, and a cycle is a smidge longer than one earth year, just...you know. The native race of this planet, the Flak, are asexual! Brilliant, isn’t it?” 

Jack thinks not. 

“They’ve accomplished so much in their time, because sex and physicality just don’t get in the way. But like almost all humanoid species, they need to...well. Make tiny, grey creatures. The Flak live remarkably long lives, but they don’t live forever. So every ten cycles, citizens chosen at random gather for this feast. They ingest a sort of chemical mixture that throws their bodies in a state of temporary, hormonal flux. For the next three days, they...make new life! Hence the name.” 

Jack took this small lecture in stride. His mouth relaxed into a lazy, bemused curl. “So we’ve just walked in on a planet wide orgy that may or may not last out the week?” 

The Doctor flushed candy apple red to the roots of his hair. “That’s a rather...crass way of putting it, but yes.” 

Jack threw his head back and laughed deeply. He slung an arm around the Doctor’s skinny neck and pulled him in tight. “Lead the way, Doctor.” 

x

There were three major pantheons in Fantasia. They were called Houses, and they had impossible titles Jack wasn’t about to attempt. There were hundreds of smaller pantheons scattered through the city, like local community centers. The Doctor said they were places of gathering and togetherness, not necessarily having to do with religion. In fact, religion was almost completely absent from Quisos’ culture. The Flak tended to believe more in the inner light of an individual than the presence of some omniscient, higher being. 

However, every pantheon [grand or local] would be wholly occupied for the duration of the night. The chosen Flak would eat and drink their fill, physically and mentally preparing themselves for three days of nonstop coitus.The Doctor was tickled pink with the whole ordeal. Though not in any sexual sense, he fervently assured Jack. They had to visit one of the Houses, he said. There was too much to learn [“It’s my duty as a servant of science!”]. 

The Doctor seemed certain they wouldn’t be turned away, despite the intimacy and cultural significance of the proceedings. Either he knew something Jack didn’t, or he’d really never been turned out to the cold. Both were realistic scenarios, Jack decided. A quick hover commute later, and they came upon a daunting slab of sharply red stairs. Copper, from the way they twanged underfoot. At the top of those stairs was an open hall. Fat, ribbed columns sprouted from the patterned, stone flooring like tulips. It was every bit the stately temple Jack imagined it to be. Natives lined the staircase, some even camped out in the streets below. 

Candle orbs floated over their upturned palms. Trembling, sunflower gold met the pink wreaths of their tangible emotion on copper steps. Many of them sang [some choosing to hum] low hymns wrought with feeling. As their three suns were disappearing behind the House one at a time, all you could see of the Flak were their lambent eggs. It was gorgeous, and Jack wouldn’t forget it. 

“Family members.” The Doctor murmured reverently. As they climbed, no one paid them any mind. They found the lower hall totally empty. A little wick was mounted on every column, and a candle orb hovered over each wick. They took care to be quiet, but their shoes clicked on the stone pieces. Just beyond the tall doors [massive, immovable things], they could hear an uproar. Jack shared a hesitant look with the Doctor. “This feels kind of...sacrilegious.” 

The Doctor waved him off, but there was a hint of nerves in his normally infallible front. “We’re just...peeking in. I’m sure they won’t mind!” 

As though proving his point, he shoved the doors open and sauntered in like he was their awaited God. Jack gaped, speechless. Only the Doctor. Only the mad, perfect Doctor. The dining hall tapered off into silence. The chosen Flak [hundreds of them] turned to stare at the Doctor with big, spooked eyes. The silence was grating. “‘Ello!” He greeted them like they were distant cousins. There were no friendly replies. Well, not immediately. After a long minute of awkward staring, Jack was about ready to run. Running was a comfortable fallback. 

A man [Jack...thought it was a man] stood suddenly, his chair scraping back. “Doctor-!” 

The Doctor squinted and tipped forward on the balls of his feet. He whipped his glasses out, shoving them on his face. “Radk?” He shouted. His normal, crazed smile made its appearance. 

Of course. Of course. Jack was not surprised, nor was he amused. At least the immediate threat of public stoning was put on hold. Radk looked across the grey, befuddled faces of his people and raised his hand in a decidedly placating manner. “Please be calm, gathered ones. This man is a friend to us. Return to your meals, if you will.” 

They did as asked [painstakingly slow], though their tones were more hushed and secretive. A few peeked suspiciously over their shoulders. Jack would be suspicious of the loud, random outworlders too. Radk hastened over to them, his round middle bouncing against his thighs [honest tree trunks]. He approached the Doctor like they were old University mates. With a smile [one that crinkled the skin around his eyes] that promised embarrassing reminiscence. They touched fingertips, and his egg burned corundum [“pink sapphire”]. “Doctor, it has been much longer than you said!” 

“Wha - ? I said I’d visit every now and again. Here I am, visiting!” 

“It’s been cycles! I’ve lost count of how many! I was but a youngling last time we met.” 

“...Well that doesn’t seem right.” The Doctor smacked his lips.

Jack watched this interaction with faint laughter caught in his throat. It often seemed Time was more in control of the Doctor than he was of it. Then, the [apple cheeked] Flak noticed Jack lingering in the open threshold. “Ah, and who is this man of yours? Human?”

Jack pasted on his most charming face. He approached with confidence, bowing smoothly. “The most human of them all. Captain Jack Harkness, at your service.” He made sure to keep any hints of flirtation from his voice, lest he earn the Doctor’s halfhearted disapproval. Flirting came second nature, even if it was meant in jest. The Doctor didn’t get that. He was too prudish for his own good health [and/or] sanity. Radk offered his long, swelled fingertips with a disarming waggle of his hairless brow. Jack hesitated briefly. He cleared his throat, and carefully touched his forehead to those very alien appendages. 

The feeling was instant and a great deal more uncomfortable than many of his deaths. It was like having a special, secret room with all your most precious possessions stowed away [on shelves, in cupboards]. A stranger suddenly kicks the door off its hinges, tracking mud on the freshly vacumed carpet, touches everything. Knocking things from their rightful shelf, throwing open cupboard doors. Every emotion was thoroughly poked, and subsequently traced to its origin. Jack hadn’t felt so violated in all his considerable years. He inhaled too sharply, and vaguely heard himself coughing. Jack got fleeting impressions of embarrassment and apology before that invasive presence was gone from his mind.

He opened his eyes [when did he...?], and found the Doctor close enough to map constellations of freckles on the sharp corners of cheekbone. His glasses slumped a bit, and Jack saw a startling range of browns encircling the pitch of his pupil. He looked worried. In his moment of emotional vulnerability, that meant the world [plus a thousand] to Jack. The Doctor worried for him. Jack chuckled, breathless. 

“Jack? Jack! I’m sorry, I should have warned you. The first time is always, ah...uncomfortable.” He laughed a high, chittery thing. 

“Oh! My deepest apologies, Captain! I did not mean to be so forceful with you.” Radk sounded truly mortified. His egg flickered a dark, somber mountbatten pink. He lowered his voice. “Everything was so...hidden. Humans must be very private creatures.” He pursed his lips, and held deliberate eye contact with Jack. Jack knew perfectly what he was getting at. He shot a quick glance at the Doctor, and was relieved to find him oblivious to any subtle implications.

“It’s no problem, really.” He rapped his knuckles against his temple. “No permanent damage.” 

“Allow me to redeem myself. Join us in this time of celebration, I insist. Sit, eat, and we might think on happy times.” He gushed, motioning for them to follow. They did, and Jack felt a curious buzz heating at their backs. Gone was the wariness and suspicion. Apparently the Flak need only to see them mentally splayed and poked at to put their own minds at ease. Radk led them to his table [for the esteemed and illustrious Flak peoples] at the far end of the banquet hall. It looked a good mile long, lavender runner swishing over the sides. Hundreds of colorful, steaming bowls and sauce pans spanned the wood top. There was enough food [imported! Jack recognized a favorite Santauran dish made with pasta and tangel beetles] to feed a generous village. 

Radk took his place at the head of the table, the Doctor to his immediate right. Jack sat right of the Doctor, shooting a salacious wink to the demure, lady Flak on his other side. Her egg shimmered fairyesque carnation, and Jack took that as a promising color. The Doctor stuck a bony elbow between his ribs. “Don’t.” He peered at Jack from overtop his glasses. “Possibly the worst time and place.”

“Don’t be jealous, Doctor. You’re the only one for me.” He should be joking, he’s not. The Doctor took it as the joke it wasn’t. He speared a bit of gumblejack on the end of his fork, holding it out for Jack to take. “Just eat something, before you get us banished from this gorgeous planet.” He muttered in true, grumpy Doctor fashion. Instead of taking the offered utensil, Jack leaned close and wrapped his lips around the prongs. He chewed the pungent fish with deliberate slowness. The Doctor looked properly scandalized. “Well. That’s hardly...” He swallowed. Jack liked this reaction immensely. 

Unbeknown to them, they were subject to intense scrutiny. Radk watched their interactions with thinly veiled amusement and open knowingness. He was no stranger to smitten couples, but those couples were mostly of Flak descent. Their emotions could be easily read in the lightening or darkening pink of their eggs. Humans and Time Lords were altogether different, but not as sneaky as they like to think. Radk was feeling devious in the presence of his old, clever friend. 

He slowly stood, and clapped three times. The hall quieted immediately. “The time is nearly upon us! We...will be responsible for the new generation!” He declared. His voice was an effective rallying agent. Variant pinks lit the room, and quiet clapping sounded. Jack figured the life of a Flak must be an embarrassingly honest one. The Doctor clapped a little more enthusiastically, looking nothing less than delighted. Times like these, Jack figured the Doctor for an open book. Most other times, Jack figured their coexistence would be much simpler if the Doctor had such an obvious tell as the Flak do. 

Radk smiled full and toothy, before taking his seat again. He then engaged the Doctor in cheerful talk of intelligent topics Jack had no hope of fathoming. Jack watched them flail about, and laughed to himself. He didn’t mind sitting by like a simpleton [and he was, compared to his company], as long as he got to see the Doctor like this, like no place was better than here. 

Somehow, Radk managed to tip over a smoking bowl of something purple and lumpy [...berries?]. It spilled down the Doctor’s front, soaking into his matching jacket and trousers. He hissed, and quickly stood. Radk jumped up. His hands hovered over the Doctor like he wasn’t sure how to help. “Forgive me, friend! I did not mean - !” 

The Doctor waved him off, awkwardly wiping the goop from his chest. The stains grew more pronounced, despite his efforts. “Ah, no harm done.” He cringed. 

“The flamaka berry! I fear your dressings have been done great harm, friend. The flamaka berry cannot be cleansed, not once it settles.” His egg burned an ugly salmon. Jack took that color to mean shame. The Doctor pouted, and spared his ruined clothing a weak look. “But...my...” He gestured vaguely to himself. Jack smothered a chuckle. He looked heartbroken. Radk, however, looked suddenly enlightened. 

“Ah, fear not! There is still time, we must cleanse your dressings promptly!” He signaled a passing server. He gave the Doctor a few, gentle shoves. “Please, follow Klasyk. He will provide you with new dressings.” 

The Doctor floundered, but obediently followed. He shot Jack a stern look from over his shoulder. “Behave yourself.” 

Jack straightened, huffing in mock offense. “What ever do you mean?” He asked as innocently as he could. The Doctor squinted at him as was shuffled out of sight, into the next corridor. Jack watched him go. Radk dropped into the seat previously occupied by the Doctor. He puffed a loud sigh. “Ah, this is awful! I’d not hoped to embarrass myself like this.” He bemoaned. 

Jack nudged him with a friendly elbow. “Don’t beat yourself up. The Doctor...has this way about him. You just want to impress him, but you usually end up making a fool of yourself.” 

Radk studied him from the corner of his protrusive eye. “You speak from experience?”

“Unfortunately.” Jack said dryly. “I don’t know why he keeps me around, but whatever the reason, I’m glad for it.” 

Radk grinned secretly to himself. Before any more conversation could be had between them, drums sounded from the swelled balconies above. Jack recognized them as the same drums from earlier in the day, though the beat was off by a thump or two. As before, all sound was quick to extinguish. In the next moment, a long line of formally clad servers pushed through the kitchen doors one at a time. They each held large, silver trays atop one shoulder, and each tray was heavy with eight goblets. Jack raised both eyebrows, more than a little curious. The goblets were served to the gathered Flak, who remained ominously somber.

Again, Radk stood. He raised his own goblet high. “Drink for those who will be!” 

All at once, they raised the goblets to their lips and gulped hearty mouthfuls. Radk returned to his seat, and sat his goblet aside. Jack gestured to the untouched drink. “You aren’t...?” 

Radk shook his head. “No, my time of participation has long passed. It would be improper of me to drink.” He said wistfully. Then, he looked to be seriously considering something. He fingered the hollow neck of the goblet. 

“You, Jack, are an otherworldly visitor. Perhaps you’d like a taste of our celebratory drink? There is no etiquette to suggest it’d be untoward. It tastes...very pleasant.” He pushed the goblet across the wrinkled runner, towards Jack. 

Jack looked into the thick, pink depths of the drink uncertainly. It looked like strawberry milk. “I mean, can I?” 

Radk nodded enthusiastically. Jack lifted the goblet, silently marveling at its weight, and brought it to his mouth. He drew in a few, tentative sips. His eyelids fluttered in pleasured shock. It tasted like the strawberries his Ma’ used to grow in the little picket box, on the kitchen windowsill. He wished he had asked her what kind of strawberries she grew in that little picket box, when he was a kid. He drained the goblet of every drop, and set it down with a satisfied sound. “What was that? I could go for seconds!” 

Radk laughed. He moved the goblet to the edge of the table for a server to find, and clapped Jack on the shoulder. “One is more than enough.” 

It was about that time the Doctor came rushing out. His chest heaved, and his cheeks shone a barely there pink. He was clad in periwinkle robes. A gold, spherical clasp hooked together at the base of his throat [drawing attention to the perfect, pale column]. The robes fit him loosely in some places, and wonderfully tight in others. Jack distantly realized a majority of the attending Flak were dressed in similar garb, but he couldn’t seem to focus on much outside round shoulders and obscenely pronounced collar bones. He swallowed, then coughed. 

“Don’t stare too hard, you’ll catch him on fire.” Radk murmured in his ear, before generously moving to his previous seat. The Doctor hurriedly slid into his original chair, the one next to Jack. “I missed it!” He cried. “I can’t believe I missed it!” He looked at Jack mournfully. “The drinking of life is my favorite part.”

Jack was going to say something comforting and heartfelt [he was!], but the Doctor had a very distracting mouth. Jack had noticed that same mouth an inordinate number of times before, but now it seemed a feat of impossible strength just to look away. Then he realized what he was doing, and managed to rip his eyes away. “It wasn’t that impressive.” He finally got out, voice rough. The Doctor made a sharp, offended noise. 

“Wasn’t that - ? Jack, you have witnessed something precious and sacred, something no outworlder has seen before, besides myself! The beginnings of physical change within these gorgeous beings, a physical change that will bring new life!” He ranted in that impassioned way that was purely his. Jack was staring again. 

The remainder of the banquet went on much in the same way. Jack desperately grappled with the metaphorical bar of soap that was his concentration, all the while tightening his hands into fists beneath the table [lest they wander]. He felt himself get warmer with every, new minute. He rolled up his sleeves, and popped loose a few buttons. When they were well into the night, the sky at its blackest [her three moons having retired hours before], he was near feverish. Sweat beaded at his temples, rolling sluggishly. The incandescent pinks and orange peel oranges of the hall were blurring into something Gogh-esque. The only clear lines in his periphery were of the Doctor, his cheekbones sharp enough to leave thin cuts on his psyche. 

Jack had the oddest urge to lap strawberry juice from the shallow dips of his dainty, bowed clavicle bones. He grit his teeth, and stared determinedly at his plate. He hadn’t touched his food, outside of aggressively stabbing it. The Doctor had tried to engage him in conversation [mostly asking after his suddenly dubious health], but Jack could reply with little more than a strained grunt. His body was tight, like he’d been suspended in the same position for days upon days. Simply shifting in his seat brought both relief and greater stress. The heat curling in his gut like a viper had been steadily trickling into his groin. He crossed and uncrossed his legs several times, to no avail. 

As nighttide crept to an end, the Doctor laid a warm hand on his shoulder. Jack jumped, then grew incredibly tense. “Jack, you aren’t well. Perhaps we should retire to the TARDIS?” The Doctor was invading his space, Jack could feel the moist puffs of his breath. He sounded resigned. Jack wanted to reassure him, say he was feeling fine. If he opened his mouth now, he feared nothing coherent would come out. Gods, that hand was warm. Five, spindly fingers flexed around his upper arm. Jack shook his head.

Radk peered over the Doctor’s shoulder. “He has imbibed too much drink. He is suffering terrible aches, surely.” He said sympathetically. “There is no need for you to make the long journey back to your TARDIS. Please, we have chambers for you here.” 

The Doctor worried his [red, biteable] lip in indecision. Then he took in Jack and his sorry state. “Yes, alright. Jack, how much did you drink?” 

Not much, he didn’t think. He tried to remember, but the evening had narrowed down to a distant light at the end of a dark tunnel. Nothing mattered as much as the Doctor, the way he sat jackknifed in his seat, the animated flapping of his pale hands, the minute twitches of his facial muscles. In light of that incomplete list, Jack could have been bound and roasting on a spit for the past forty minutes without noticing. Jack could be blind drunk, cold sober, he wouldn’t know the difference. Not when the Doctor was looking at him like that, like he was more important than any worldwide crises or invasive offworlders bent on domination and/or destruction of the planet. 

“I...don’t know.” He managed to get out. He shrugged, playing at nonchalant the best he could. It was difficult, considering the slow burn in his loins. He wanted to scoot his chair back, seat the Doctor on his lap, mouth at his barred neck, grind. In the far reaches of his lust addled mind, he knew something wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be this completely out of control, this wrecked. The Doctor looked about to reply, but Radk slowly stood and called attention with three, sharp claps [as before]. Again, the hall quieted. 

“Friends and family, our time together is drawing to a close. As I am sure you are all eager to get behind closed doors, I will be brief. Thank you for your participation, even if it was simply out of obligation. Each one of you here has the unflappable respect and gratitude of your fellows and your leaders. Again, thank you. At this time, you may leave the Kaskama Hija House at your leisure. However, I ask that you do not leave without your mate, nor should you leave your mate’s side until you are both safely home. If you are not comfortable with, or do not have any, previous arrangements in light of this delicate situation, we have a great many rooms available here.” With a gracious bow, he ended his final speech of the night. 

Immediately, more than half the attendees stood. They filed from the hall on unsteady legs, having to support each other with awkward, flopping limbs. Jack didn’t afford them much attention, as he was being herded from his own chair and supported by slight hands. The Doctor faintly buckled under his dead weight, but held steady. Jack could do little more then let himself be dragged, his feet tangling up like damp noodles. Radk was their unofficial guide. He led them through small, lavish corridors and up copper staircases. Jack was more concerned with wrapping around the Doctor like a homesick squid, dipping a few fingers beneath periwinkle robes [groping a sharp hipbone]. His head dropped on the Doctor’s naked shoulder. 

The Doctor was blushing hot enough to fry eggs, his cheeks like bunsen burners. He sputtered helplessly. “Jack, please. Self control.” He murmured. Jack paid little heed. If anything, he grew more desperate for physical contact. He pressed his face to the Doctor’s throat, and breathed him in like he were fresh air after years of scrounging in the sewer underground. He licked and nipped. The Doctor jumped. “Jack!” He whispered harshly. Radk peeked at them from over his shoulder. He smiled giddily. 

They came to a room soon enough. It was a big, open room with panoramic windows and a view worthy of royals. Nighttime fantasia was spread on her back, splaying all she had to offer with a confidence and grace that would only ever be hers. Spectrum glass and giant, arching marvels shined below and faraway. The city was alight in a beautiful but unobtrusive way, and it was an undoubtedly alien city. There was a lone bed, and it was grand in all manner of the word. Draped in thick, maroon blankets and ladened with fat pillows. Radk left them with a heartfelt invitation to stay as long as they need, and sincere wishes to sleep well. The door closed behind them with a soft, pneumatic hiss.

Jack was so hot, he couldn’t breathe. He tore away from the Doctor, gasping for air. He ripped the clothes from his body, and the [click, click, clack] of scattering buttons was shockingly loud. The Doctor was a fluttering, nervous presence beside him. “Something is very, very not right. Jack, what have you done?” 

Jack couldn’t answer. His ruined garments dropped to the floor one article at a time. His cock strained against the fabric of his shorts. He palmed himself viciously. The Doctor choked on his next breath, and politely averted his eyes. “Jack, for the love of - !” The abundance of tongue in his mouth kept him from saying more. Jack couldn’t stop himself, he was so hot. He slammed the Doctor back, slanting their mouths together and pulling frantically at the thin, periwinkle fabric keeping them apart. The Doctor fought him, but his notorious strengths weren’t physical. He jerked his head to the side, but Jack wasn’t deterred. “Jack, you need to stop this.” He panted.

“I think I know, you must have - !” He yelped, as damp hands found purchase on his outer thighs. “The drinking of life, you - !”

Jack hiked him up the wall, grabbing two handfuls of pale [arse] cheek. He kept him trapped with the weight of his body, and the Doctor could do little more than cling. Jack mouthed at an exposed shoulder, leaving impressions of his teeth in milken skin. The Doctor tasted better than any batch of strawberries, his Ma’ never had a real green thumb to speak of. He ground into the vee of the Doctor’s parted thighs, seeking relief with every hard swivel of hips. The Doctor was mortified to feel himself reacting [in very obvious ways]. 

“Jack, you’re undergoing some very -!” Something breathy. “- serious, physical changes. You’ve ingested a drug that was not meant for you. I need to - Ahn! Jack, please!” 

Jack was falling in love with every, new sound from the Doctor’s swanlike throat. He shoved the robes up, tucking them under the Doctor’s arms. The Doctor bucked against him. “Jack! You need to stop this, you aren’t yourself!” He urged. He squeezed his eyes shut, and wrenched his lower half upwards [away from grinding hips]. Jack came back to himself in a moment of unforgiving clarity. He pulled away from the Doctor, and breathed harshly. A shudder wracked through him, he couldn’t lift his head [couldn’t meet terrified eyes]. His legs gave out, and they slid to the floor. 

Jack kneeled between the Doctor’s sprawled legs. He slackened forward, and rested his forehead on the Doctor’s purpling shoulder. Tears wet his lashes. “Doctor, I -” He sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so hot. I can’t, it hurts, I -!” 

The Doctor took him in his arms, and held him tightly. He shushed him, and pressed soothing kisses to the top of his soaked head. “It’s alright, it’s fine. I’m not angry with you, Jack.” He tightened his hold. “This is not your fault.” He assured him. Jack swallowed, he couldn’t bring himself to agree. His cock throbbed angrily in its cotton confinements, and he fought to keep still. “Doctor, I need...I...” He couldn’t say it, but the Doctor understood. He fit his hands to Jack’s jaw, and lifted his head. The Doctor forced him into meeting eyes. 

The Doctor studied him intensely. Jack stared back, completely at the Doctor’s mercy. After a painstaking minute, the Doctor came to a tentative decision. “I’m...I’m going to help you through this, Jack.” He said, only barely hesitant. Jack could’ve cried in his relief. 

“You just, we have to be...careful. It’s been a very long time, since I’ve...” He trailed off awkwardly. “I mean, there hasn’t been any need!” His face was officially aflame. Jack wanted to laugh, maybe kiss the Doctor stupid. He would wait though, because the Doctor was allowing this, and he owed him a smidge of goddamn patience. The Doctor shifted, and their groins bumped. Jack hissed, his smidge of patience quickly leaving him. The Doctor was hasty to apologize. “Sorry, I’m sorry!” 

Both were unsure on how to proceed. They breathed the same air, as Jack inched closer. He wanted this more than he wanted most things, another taste. Surprisingly, the Doctor met him halfway. Their lips brushed, once, two times. Jack surged forward, his hunger overtaking him in a flush of piping heat. He drew the Doctor to his chest [which seemed to radiate vast amounts of unnatural warmth], drawing nonsense patterns in the small of his back. Their lips scraped like wet sand trapped in swim shorts, delightfully grating. The Doctor breathed a litany of hitched sounds, and Jack was happy to swallow them. 

Just as he began prying apart the puckered folds of periwinkle robes, Jack looked around himself and felt vague horror at the fact they were still entangled on the floor. The Doctor deserved better than to be taken on any floor, back to a durasteel wall. He deserved better than Jack, or anything Jack could offer him [so Jack wasn’t about to take a moment for granted]. Without a word of warning, Jack lifted the Doctor by the underside of his thighs. The Doctor squawked and wrapped his limbs about Jack like a pasty, human koala. 

“Perhaps some warning!” He sputtered. He clung for dear life, as Jack crossed the room in three strides. The Doctor was shockingly light, and Jack tried to remember the last time he’d seen the man really eat. “You need to eat more.” He half teased. Jack could see snark brewing in the quirked corners of his mouth, and dropped him on the essential sponge cake that was their bed before a reply could be made. The Doctor bounced a little, robes slipping from his shoulders and pooling around his waist like wading through periwinkle paint. 

Jack felt his mouth dry up. A torso length of [three moons’ worth of light] skin, stretched over bumps of rib and little hills of muscle. Jutting hipbones and a barred throat [asking for a necklace of purple bruising and teeth indentations], skinny fingers clenching in patterned quilting. The Doctor was looking at him in a mixture of concern and uncertainty. He took Jack’s silence to mean disappointment, and started curling in on himself. “Not altogether impressive, I know, but - mmph!” Jack was eager to put those insecurities to rest, and kissed the Doctor like he was trying to stop both hearts and suck out his fucking soul. 

The Doctor was possibly [no, definitely] the most beautiful being to ever grace their Universe and any others, and he needed to be made aware of this fact as soon as possible. Jack aimed to show him exactly that. He reared back, and stripped himself of his shorts [sticky and transparent with his over - excitement]. With the Doctor’s slow nod of approval, Jack finally peeled back the alien vestments separating them. His mouth watered, and the heat reached a sort of breaking point. He wanted to taste everything, touch everything, ruin and rebuild everything. “Perfect, you’re...” He whispered in the juncture of throat and collar. 

The Doctor squirmed under him, very unsure on how to respond. “Perfect?” He quipped, laughing nervously. Jack looked up, and his eyes smouldered with something frighteningly genuine. “Yes.” He answered. He lowered himself to fit wholly against the Doctor, and coherence was lost to him. He thrust helplessly into the cradle of warm thigh, naked cocks sliding along their bellies. The Doctor gasped [his voice getting high like it does], and bucked just as helplessly. He hadn’t felt this in a long time, not for centuries. He didn’t remember much from back then. It was all new, Jack was new. Exploration, however, took a backseat to the need rattling through Jack like unstoppable freighters. 

The first time was many things: hard, frantic, uncontrolled, a bit brutal. The Doctor was on his knees, head lost among decorative pillows, tears and saliva leaving shiny tracks down his face. Jack was a force of nature behind him. He moved harshly and mindlessly, yanking the Doctor back by bony hips [bruises had lost shape, just big splotches]. Jack was slick enough that little preparation had been needed, but the Doctor could feel himself ripping. The only sounds were of skin slapping wetly, and the Doctor choking on his own fist. Jack needed this, he fiercely remind himself. 

The second time was apologetic. There was no penetration, Jack refused [despite the Doctor swearing up and down he could handle it, because this was about “you, you need this!”]. Jack made it his mission to soothe every bruise and red patch, the pink crescents and [striking in their detail] teeth molds. He started with the right ear, and whispered his way down sinewy pockets and finely cut bone. 

With each smattering of unnatural color he discovered, his fingers grew more shaky. He laved softly at every dark spot, gently turning the Doctor as was necessary. At some point, Jack began to cry. The Doctor could feel wetness gathering in his navel, where Jack had his face buried. The Doctor liked to think he felt everything a little harder than most, because he had two hearts instead of one. His chest ached for Jack in that moment, and for himself. Guilt was a cold boulder in his gut. He weaved his fingers through floppy, black tufts and scratched absently at his scalp. 

“Stop it, Jack.” He murmured. 

The muffled reply might’ve been, “I can’t.” He proceeded to bring the Doctor to orgasm three times.

The third time was mutual. His thrusts were so ginger and slow, they were near imperceptible. The Doctor had his legs twined about Jack’s waist, their hands curled up and gripping loosely. They rubbed their lips together, not quite kissing. They must’ve been at it for hours, as Jack had reached climax several times over. He filled the Doctor with sticky warmth, giving him all he had and then some. It leaked from him in constant rivulets, he felt like a busted faucet. It was a welcome mess, and the Doctor decided he liked the tickle of seed dribbling betwixt his cheeks. He would later be mortified by that admission, but it wasn’t later.

The fourth time was in the name of discovery. The bed had become boring and outdated, and they subsequently moved their exploits to the panoramic window. Jack had the Doctor kissing glass, giving higher Fantasia an eyeful of his wanton nakedness. He was out to find the seemingly nondescript hotspots the Doctor was adamant about keeping hidden, the small knobs and patches that would bring him to blessed incoherency. One such hotspot was the tender strips of skin where the back of his thighs met cheek. Once Jack made this discovery, he was ruthless in exploiting it. Jack chewed up the underside of his thighs until they were splotchy and firetruck red, whilst popping his thumb into the Doctor’s fluttering pucker.

“Jack! I can’t - nngh!” He bucked into the chilly glass. The feverish, ruddy head of his cock left smears down the pristine pane. His uneven breaths were misting the window, condensation leeching out around his fingertips. Jack was relentless. He sucked large, purple crescents along the swell of his arse. Minutes later, the Doctor repainted the window white. He whined through this latest orgasm, writhing like a big fish on a treble hook. Jack achieved violent release simply from hearing the Doctor fall apart under his mouth. It was empowering in a way he’d never experienced.

The fifth time was fun. They were in the bath, soapy water and bubbles spilling over the lip of the tub with every jostle. They used smelly good conditioner as lubricant, and it burned in all the right crevices. They aimed to try as many stupid, acrobatic positions as possible before slipping and breaking both of their necks. At one point, Jack had the Doctor’s ankles slung over his shoulders. He had him pinned to the monochromatic tiles, but they kept skidding and creating tiny tidal waves in the bath water. There was more hysterical giggling than sounds of breathless, wanting passion. That was alright. 

The sixth time was sleepy. The Doctor was woken from a particularly average REM cycle. He was halfway on his side, his back resting against Jack’s chest. His left leg dangled over Jack’s hip. Jack squeezed his inner knee, and pulled his leg back a mite tighter. Jack was thrusting in short, hard bursts. The Doctor was well used to his considerable girth by that point, but it still gave him pause, to be so totally full. He groaned, or at least tried to. It came out as a tired crackle. Jack didn’t stop, but instead fit his face to the Doctor’s throat. “I’m sorry.” He mumbled.

He took the Doctor in hand, and fondled him lazily. He massaged the underside of his rosy, mushroom head. The Doctor laughed, his hips twitching. It was late afternoon, the Doctor couldn’t say what day. Vermillion sunlight made the room look faintly bloody, awash with violent reds. The Doctor blinked a few times. “For what?” He finally replied. Jack didn’t say anything for a long time. His thrusts grew less controlled, more jerky. “For loving you.” He sounded genuinely apologetic. The Doctor figured Jack could keep his apologies to himself. 

There was an infinite number of times after that. They occasionally slept, and often times they’d wake to a dolly ladened with hot food sitting by the door. They took their meals at the shiny, Padauk table on the balcony. Lighthearted conversation was still had in between hurried bites. The Doctor would bend over the railing, cast eyes out, and spot something interesting to enthuse over for minutes on end. Jack would smile, a bad pun at the ready. The copious amounts of sex didn’t completely alter the dynamic of their relationship, and both were immensely grateful. They didn’t leave that room until late morning on the fourth day. 

The drug was completely out of Jack’s system, but that didn’t stop him from trying to suck out the Doctor’s skeleton through his cock whilst they showered. The Doctor had few complaints. His back bowed tautly, his mouth dropped open. His voice was unrecognizable in the the steamy, echoic cubicle. “Jack, we need to - gha! You’re insatiable!” He gritted out. Jack pinned his hips to wall, and took the whole of him in one go. He swallowed repeatedly, his throat effectively milking the Doctor of every, salty drop. 

As they left their den of the past three days, far more wrecked than upon entering, Jack took on most [if not all] of the Doctor’s weight. He looked and felt like one, big bruise. His legs shook under him, and they threatened to buckle after a few steps. Jack was sick with guilt. He had crippled the Doctor. 

Radk awaited them in the main hall. A small entourage of important looking, political types stood at his back. Through the open doors, sitting innocuously in the outside hall, was their TARDIS. The bright, natural spotlights of midday shone behind her. Her shadowed countenance was more intimidating than usual, but no less gorgeous. It was the little things that made her so, the navy tendrils of peeling paint. She had undeniable personality. Jack was torn between relief at the sight of her, and righteous fury at the sight of Radk. The Doctor was hastier in deciding. 

With some effort, he straightened and stepped forward. He fixed Radk with a sharp, disapproving look. “I cannot believe you. You had no idea how that drink would affect human physiology! Jack could have become seriously ill, what would you have done then? What were you thinking?” Jack cringed. The Doctor’s disappointment was tangible and bitter. 

Radk had the good graces to look ashamed. He wrung his hands nervously. “My friend, if you’ll please find it in yourself to forgive me. I don’t know what possessed me to do what I did. I just...you and the Captain seemed to need a gentle shove in the correct...direction.” 

The Doctor sputtered. “A gentle shove - ?! That was hardly gentle, or even necessary! Jack and I, our personal lives are of no concern to you. You had no right.”

Radk bowed deeply. “If there is anything I can do to right this wrong, I will.”

Jack, eager to end this conversation, quickly answered before the Doctor could. “Just keep that room clean for us, we might be stopping by from time to time.” He winked suggestively, before shuffling the Doctor out to the TARDIS. Radk smiled a mile wide. “Of course, I will eagerly await your return!” 

The Doctor fought him off weakly. “Jack, you could’ve - !”

“It’s okay.” He unlocked the TARDIS door, and pushed it open. “We’re okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, can you guys spot the recurring number? Don’t ask me why it’s recurring or why that specific number. Stuff just happens. I’m just curious about how many of you notice the little details.


End file.
